Chapter Seven

 

 

 

Once he got home, Tim had time to think about how the evening in Chadds Ford had gone. All things considered, everything had gone extremely well.

Better than well, actually—at least, for Stevie. And even for Evan and Julia.

It was remarkable what a little bit of openness and honest discourse could accomplish.

And how easily, too.That was the perverse part.

If only the Church could embrace that behavior. How much better and richer could all of their lives be? How much more relevant, purposeful and effective a ministry could they achieve?

Tim didn’t understand why so many people were consigned to hobble through life, dragging monster-sized loads of fear and shame behind them like ship’s anchors. They lived and died without access to hope—never finding release from the twin shackles of shame and self-recrimination. And that curse was perpetuated because they had never been shown the power that derived from speaking their truths aloud, as Stevie and Evan had done this very night.

My name is Legion, the man answered, when Jesus asked his name.

Jesus wanted the possessed man to name his demons. Because Jesus understood that naming them took away their power.

Why were so many denied the wisdom of these simple truths?

Why had he denied himself?

Fear and shame. These were the greatest deterrents to grace. For too long, they had been his constant companions. For too long, he had pampered them . . . hidden them away and protected them like private treasures. His pearls of great price.

Stevie had told him he was struggling like someone trapped in a broken marriage. How profound that insight was. But between Tim and the Church, it was a toss-up to determine which one of them had been unfaithful. Hadn’t they both broken their vows?

And was there any way out—for either of them?

He looked around his tiny apartment in the rectory at St. Rita’s. It was spartanly furnished—mostly appointed with just his books and some reclaimed pieces of furniture. Some of those belonged to the Church, but most of them were things Evan had helped him collect through the years. That had always been a favorite pastime of theirs, especially during their graduate school days. They spent countless Saturdays together scouring junk stores and flea markets, looking for bargains and rare finds. Well-used mission-style tables. Worn woven rugs. Chipped but still serviceable bits of mismatched pottery. Even after Stevie had been born, the three of them would take off for daylong jaunts to farmer’s markets in Middletown or Carlisle. They’d find shady spots along the road to park and eat the enormous picnic lunches Evan would pack. They’d splurge on fresh raspberries, apples, or peaches—whatever fruits were in season and on sale by roadside vendors. Tim would rock Stevie and croon old torch songs to her in what Evan called his “lame-ass baritone.”

How familiar all these souvenirs of that time were. And yet, how unfamiliar they now seemed. And how perfectly they encapsulated the patchwork quilt of his life. These disparate relics and mismatched mementos of other people’s histories—all stitched together in a jumbled pastiche of . . . what? Anonymity? Isolation? Confusion?

For the first time, he understood what it must be like for witnesses in criminal cases who were given new identities and placed in relocation programs. They surrendered their pasts and became strangers to their futures. And not because of anything they had done—but because of things they had borne witness to.

Because of things they told the truth about.

Was that the end of this? Was becoming a stranger the penalty for making things right? For making amends to God and to the people he’d wronged by his silence?

He honestly had no idea.

And he knew he wouldn’t find the answers to these questions tonight. Yet he tarried, and continued to find things to do. Busywork. Anything that could stave off his fear of sleep—of the nightmares certain to become his companions in the hours remaining before dawn.

He was actually relieved when his phone rang. As late as it was, he knew it was probably a Church matter. Likely, the call would be about some kind of family emergency—somebody sick or in need of other pastoral care. He practically sprinted across the room to answer it, feeling ashamed for the rush of adrenaline he got from the distraction. He didn’t recognize the number.

“This is Father Donovan,” he said.

“It’s Joey,” a man’s voice said. Tim could hear other sounds in the background. Beeping noises—like trucks backing up.

“Joey? Are you all right?”

Disgusted laughter. “Oh, yeah. I’m great.” He coughed. Tim thought he could hear him spit.

“Where are you?”

“I’m . . . some fucking place.” The beeping sound stopped. It was followed by an engine noise and a loud bang.

Tim jerked the cell phone away from his ear. “What was that?”

“Dumpsters.” Joey coughed again. “They’re picking up the trash.”

Tim’s mind raced to come up with the right things to say—things that would keep Joey on the line. There could only be one reason for his call at this hour . . .

“It’s cold tonight.” How lame. That was the best he could come up with?

“Not where I’m headed.”

“You’re going someplace?”

“Aren’t we all . . . Father?”

“You can call me Tim, Joey. I’m just a guy, like you.”

“Like me? Oh, yeah? You wanna count the ways you’re just like me?”

“I can if you want me to.” Tim could hear Joey’s labored breathing. It sounded almost like he was panting. There were sporadic traffic noises, too. Cars. A siren in the distance. Two sirens. Joey was walking someplace. “Do you want to come here? Come inside and get warmed up?”

“Not there.” Joey bit off the words. “I’m never coming back there.”

“Okay. That’s all right. Someplace else, then? Anyplace you want.”

Joey snorted and spat again. “Pancakes.”

“What?”

“I said I want fucking pancakes.”

“Okay,” Tim said. “I could eat.” He looked at his watch. How many places that weren’t bars were still open at midnight?

“I thought about what you said.”

Tim was unprepared for Joey’s comment. “You did?”

“I’m tired of this bullshit. I don’t give a fuck about the money. I just want to be done with it.”

“You don’t have to live with it anymore, Joey. I’ll help you. I’ll go with you. You won’t be alone.”

“They don’t give a shit about us, Tim. They don’t care about what he did—what they all did. They just want to cover it up.”

Tim closed his eyes. “I know, Joey. I’m sorry about what happened to you. I care about what happened to you. I want to help you. I promise to help you.”

“I’m ready to talk.” He gave a bitter-sounding laugh. “I tried earlier tonight. It didn’t work out.”

“What happened?”

“I went by their high-class hangout. Some of their hired goons tossed me out on my ass. That’s what happened.”

Tim wasn’t surprised. He could tell Joey had been drinking. Probably a lot.

“Let’s meet someplace,” Tim said. “Let’s get some food.”

“Now?”

“Now is good for me.”

Tim heard voices and laugher. The blare of a car horn. Joey must’ve been walking past a bar. Where was he?

“How about the Melrose Diner?” Joey suggested.

That would work. With no traffic, Tim could be there in five minutes. “That’s perfect. When?”

“I’m walking, but I can be there in about ten minutes.”

“I’ll get us a table. Joey?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you called me tonight.”

“Really?” he said. “You won’t be.”

He hung up.

What Joey had just done took courage. Now it was Tim’s turn to step up.

He grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed out to meet him.

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

Evan and Julia talked for the better part of an hour after they made their way upstairs to bed. Stevie was shut up in her room across the hall—probably on the phone gabbing with Desiree.

She wondered if Ping had a clue about the two girls. The pair had spent a ton of time with her during school vacations—learning how to bake and sometimes helping her out when she had bigger catering jobs.

That was a topic for another day.

They finally were alone, and could discuss the photograph Julia had discovered in Evan’s office.

The photo of Judge Cawley with Bishop Szymanski—and Lewis Donne . . .

Julia had been mostly quiet while Evan tried to fill her in on everything she knew—and some, but not all, of what she suspected about Judge Cawley. To be fair, she knew next to nothing about the Judge’s actual involvement with Bishop Szymanski—other than the photographic evidence that the two men knew each other and that the Judge had some connection as a benefactor to the St. Rita’s basketball team. And she knew nothing about Julia’s father—except the new information that all three of the men were members of the same exclusive club. It made sense that Evan didn’t recognize Lewis Donne in the photo. She’d never had an opportunity to meet him before his death. And Julia said she likely wouldn’t have recognized him, anyway, because of the beard.

“He only had it for about eighteen months,” she explained. “Mother despised it and made his life hell. She said it made him look like a hooligan. Finally, he shaved it off just to shut her up.”

She went on to reveal that her father had been a member of the Galileo Club for more than forty years. The family made obligatory appearances there to attend formal dinners on occasional holidays, although Lewis Donne was a more frequent visitor. Julia surmised that his club membership and the close-knit fraternity of colleagues he had there were among the incentives that led him to spend so much of his time working out of D&H’s Philadelphia office.

Her mother, Katherine Donne, all but despised the club—which always seemed strange to Julia, since her mother was such a social gadfly—and did her best to spend as little time there as possible.

Julia surmised that this was another reason why her father loved his private retreat so much.

Evan debated whether to share details of some of the things Edwin Miller had rambled on about when she visited him at the asylum. What she had earlier interpreted as nonsensical ravings now seemed to take on some greater, more ominous meaning. Was Eddie trying, in his broken way, to tell her something about Cawley? Were his comments intended to be symbolic?

Or was he just plain crazy?

Galileo, he’d said when she was leaving. Then he muttered something about Galileo studying the stars.

No. That wasn’t right. He said Galileo found the stars.

The stars. He called the children playing in the puzzle of the Homer painting “little stars.” And when he recognized Evan for a moment, he said, “You found out.” When Evan asked him what he meant, he’d looked up toward the sky and said, “The stars.”

Had he been talking about the boys at the Church? Were they the “little stars” he meant? Or was he talking about his own victims?

Shit. She was the one reaching for the stars on this one.

They had taken the photograph showing Julia’s father upstairs with them so Julia could examine it more closely. Her inspection clarified one more thing: the Homer painting. Julia remembered it well—and what a big deal her father made of it when the club had it on loan.

“Albert Lippincott was able to borrow it from some private museum in Ohio,” she explained. “Dad said he was on the board there. I don’t know why they were all in such a dither about getting it. That must’ve been in 2005 when this photo was taken.”

“It took some digging to track that thing down,” Evan pointed out. “Apparently, Homer painted quite a few of these as studies before crafting the final version the club borrowed.”

“I recall Albert being insufferable after he’d managed to arrange the loan. I think they used it as a prop in some fundraising campaign.”

“Is that ‘Albert’ as in Binkie and Albert?” Evan asked.

“The same. Father of the regrettable Gerald.”

“Do you recognize any of the other men in this group?” Evan asked.

“That’s Albert.” She pointed him out. He was a rather paunchy man with a big handlebar mustache. “And I think this is one of the Cadwaladers . . . maybe Bryce? I’m not really sure. This man, I’m pretty sure, was a former ambassador. To Belgium, if memory serves.” She examined the image another minute. “I don’t recognize anyone else—and I never met Judge Cawley or the bishop personally, that I recall. But that’s not really surprising. I only ever went there under duress about twice a year.”

“Did Andy ever go there with your father?”

Julia raised an eyebrow. “A few times, when we both lived in Delaware. It wasn’t his style.”

That surprised Evan. “No?”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand,” Julia clarified. “Andy loved his refinements and all connections to privilege. He just didn’t care for this club.”

“Did he ever say why?”

“You’re awfully curious about this.”

Evan shrugged. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

“As I recall, he said it wasn’t his taste. In fact, he said he found it creepy.”

“Creepy? That seems like an odd observation.”

“Not really. Most of the members are octogenarian men who subsist on diets of Cuban cigars and thirty-year-old scotch. They don their Harvard ties and caucus around those grand fireplaces to spread the gospel of supply-side economics.”

Evan laughed. “What about the women?”

“Women?” Julia asked.

“Well, yeah. I assume there are some.”

Julia laughed. “Expensive ones.”

“Oh?”

“The Galileo Club is very ‘traditional.’ Women are only admitted as guests or as chattels of their male sponsors.”

Evan was disappointed by that revelation. “Well, that’s a pisser.”

“I agree. Although I’d be hard-pressed to find any thinking woman who would wish to become a member.”

“No,” Evan clarified. “That’s not what I meant. Now that I know what it is, I need to find a way to get in there.”

“Seriously? Why?”

Evan shrugged. “To do what I do. Ask questions. Chat up the staff. See what I can find out about the judge, and maybe what it is that makes the place ‘creepy.’ You know?”

Julia looked dubious.

“What is it?” Evan asked.

“My father. Do you think he had any connection to Cawley and the bishop?”

Evan answered carefully. “Do you mean other than the fact that they all were members of the same club?”

“And the fact that they all appeared together in this photograph,” Julia added. “With Edwin Miller.”

“Do you ever remember your father mentioning Judge Cawley? Or Bishop Szymanski?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“How about the St. Rita’s basketball team? Did he ever say anything about that—or about athletic programs at other schools?”

“No. But since he wasn’t Catholic, that’s probably not significant. He loved sports, of course. But his tastes were always a bit more rarified. Cricket. Rowing.” She rolled her eyes. “Golf, of course. But basketball?” She thought about it. “Not that I can recall.”

“What about philanthropy?” Evan asked. “Might he have contributed to any scholarship programs in the community—possibly ones favored by other club members?”

“I suppose that’s possible. I really don’t know.” Julia took a moment to think more about it. “Why do you ask about sports teams?”

“All of the boys in this photo were on the St. Rita’s basketball team—with Tim. He recognized them.”

“You showed this to Tim?”

“Yes,” Evan said. “I got a second picture from another source. It showed Cawley and the bishop with the team at St. Rita’s. They were wearing their uniforms, and Tim was one of the players. It had been taken several years earlier than this one. I showed both photos to him to see if remembered Cawley or could identify any of the other boys in the pictures.”

“Could he?”

Evan nodded.

“You haven’t answered my other question,” Julia said in a quiet voice.

“What question?” Evan pretended to be clueless. She knew exactly what Julia had asked.

“Do you think my father had any connection to Cawley or the bishop?”

Evan was a shitty liar, and knew it. “I honestly have no idea.” She did her best to sound convincing.

“Would you tell me if you did?”

Evan didn’t answer her right away. What could she say when she genuinely had no idea herself?

They were sitting side by side on Evan’s bed, and Julia leaned toward her and rested a hand on her thigh.

“Evan?”

Evan met her eyes. “The truth?”

Julia nodded.

“I don’t know.”

Julia sat back. But she didn’t remove her hand.

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“I’m sorry about this,” Evan said. She meant it, too—and tried to infuse the simple statement with everything she felt.

“Me, too.”

Evan took hold of her hand. “It might not mean anything,” she said.

“Or it might mean everything.”

Evan didn’t reply.

Julia had made it a habit to always sit on Evan’s “good” side. That way, when the spirit moved, she could rest her head on Evan’s shoulder without causing her any discomfort from her persistent neuritis. Julia scooted closer now, and tucked her head beneath Evan’s chin. The two of them sat together in silence, listening to the faint murmurs of Stevie’s continuing conversation with Desiree, until Julia fell asleep.

Evan stayed awake much longer, praying to any god who might be listening, to please not allow this nightmare revelation to terminate in the unholy place she suspected everything now was leading.

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

Tim was on his second cup of coffee—a decision he knew he’d live to regret. He’d been there for more than twenty minutes and Joey still hadn’t arrived.

The cranky waitress lumbered by again and asked if he wanted to go ahead and order. For the third time, he assured her he was waiting on someone who should be there any minute.

She tapped her pen against her fat order pad a few times, before walking off without saying anything.

Hard to blame her.He didn’t imagine the tips were very good at 12:30 a.m. And maybe her feet hurt?

He fought the impulse to keep checking his watch.

The place actually had more patrons than he had thought it would. There were a couple of cops sitting at the counter, drinking coffee and eating big slices of pie. It looked like cherry. It also looked pretty good.

What the hell was up with his appetite?He’d eaten like a horse at Evan’s, and now he was hungry again.

Stress. He’d always been that way. He’d had a weight problem in high school.

No mystery about that one . . .

But Stevie had said he looked skinny to her.

Maybe his metabolism was changing?

He finished his coffee. This was getting weird. Where was Joey?

Tim started to worry. Maybe he’d changed his mind? He’d sounded drunk when he called. And where had he been? And why was he out walking in the middle of the night?

This time, he did check his watch. Joey was now half an hour late.

Okay. What to do?

Tim rolled the dice and got out his cell phone. He pulled up Joey’s number from his call log and punched the call button. The phone rang and rang. No answer, and no voicemail. He double-checked the number to be sure he’d pulled up the right one before trying the same number again.

Same result.

He put the phone down on the table and drummed his fingers on top of it.

Ten more minutes.He’d wait ten more minutes. Maybe Joey had changed his mind and gone home?

Tim didn’t want to wake up Mrs. Mazzetta at this hour to find out. But he could always try stopping by there tomorrow . . .

The cranky waitress glared at him again—this time from the cash register.

I should’ve worn my damn collar . . .

He held up his mug and pointed at it.

Why the hell not?

At this point, one more cup of coffee couldn’t make things any worse . . .

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

Tim finally gave up. He paid for his coffee and left the cranky waitress a ten-dollar tip. He figured it probably wouldn’t improve her disposition—in fact, he wasn’t sure if anything could—but he knew it was the least he could do after holding a table for so long and not ordering anything to eat.

He drove home to try and get some sleep—or at least to lie down in the dark to try and keep his nightmares at bay. He tried calling Joey several more times. No answer. After an hour of tossing, he gave up on any idea of trying to rest and got in his car to head toward South Bouvier Street. He was pretty sure Joey wouldn’t still be out walking. It was now nearly 2 a.m., and nobody who was up to anything good would be out on the streets.

Most of the stoplights were flashing red, so the drive to the Mazzettas was quick—only about four minutes. He didn’t know what he’d do when he got there—maybe just see if an upstairs light was on or look for any signs Joey was back at home. Maybe invent a plausible reason to wake his mother up?

There was a little bit of traffic on West Passyunk, but Snyder Street was all but deserted. When he turned east on Mifflin Street, he saw the first dazzle of flashing blue and red lights.

Great. Just what he needed . . . Probably somebody got stopped for a DWI.

It was when he got to the turn for South Bouvier Street that he saw the police cars—several of them—pulled up in front of the Mazzettas’ row home.

Oh, God. No . . .

He parked at the end of the street and grabbed the satchel he always kept on the floorboard behind his seat. It contained his breviary, missal, stole, rosary and an extra collar and rabat that he could quickly don when needed. Once he’d put the garment on, he drove closer to the house and pulled over behind one of the police cars. A middle-aged, uniformed officer met him as he got out. Tim could see sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve as he approached. He held up a beefy hand to halt Tim’s progress.

“You can’t park here, buddy,” the officer said. Then he noticed Tim’s collar. “Oh. Sorry, Father.”

Tim held up a hand. “That’s fine, Sergeant. I’m here to see Joey Mazzetta. Is he at home?”

The officer shot an anxious look toward the steps of the Mazzettas’ house, where a younger man in a tan-colored coat was talking on a cell phone. Tim could see the shiny badge hanging from his jacket pocket. Blinding flashes of blue and red reflected off it like strobe lights. Tim assumed he was a detective.

“Wait right here, Father,” the sergeant said. “Somebody will be right with you, okay?”

Tim felt his heart pounding. Something had happened—either to Joey or his mother. That much he was certain of.

The detective lowered his phone while the uniformed officer spoke to him. He glanced over at Tim while he listened. Then he nodded at the officer and returned to his call.

The sergeant called Tim over.

The man in the suit finished his call and stashed his phone as Tim approached.

“I’m Detective Ortiz,” he said. “You’re Father . . . who?”

“Donovan. Tim Donovan. St. Margherita Parish.”

“You know the Mazzettas?” he asked.

“Yes.” Tim nodded. “I’m their priest. Well . . . one of them,” he added.

“Kind of late for you to be making a pastoral visit, isn’t it, Father?”

“That’s not why I’m here. Joey called me about two hours ago and asked me to meet him. When he didn’t show up, I came by here.”

“Two hours ago?” Ortiz looked at his watch. “He called you at midnight and asked you to meet him? Is that typical?”

“No . . .”

“Did he say where he was when he called?”

“No. He just asked me to meet him. I said I would.” Tim made an effort to maintain eye contact with the detective. “It’s what we do.”

Ortiz seemed to accept that. “Where were you supposed to meet?”

“The Melrose Diner. Look . . . what’s happened? It’s clear something’s wrong. Is he okay? Is Mrs. Mazzetta okay?”

“Mrs. Mazzetta is inside with another officer. She’ll probably want to see you. Her son was killed tonight. Shot in an alley over off 15th Street.”

Tim’s mind was spinning. Shot? Joey was dead? Killed tonight? Killed while he sat in the diner, drinking bad coffee?

He felt the ground lurch beneath his feet.

Ortiz quickly reached out a hand to steady him. “Hey—hey. Steady. You okay?”

Tim gazed at him blankly. “Joey is dead?”

“Yeah. He is.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know yet. Maybe a robbery. His wallet was on the ground beside him. Come over here. You still don’t look too steady.” Ortiz led Tim over to one of the iron railings flanking the steps so he could lean against it. “Lookit, Father. Take a minute to get your bearings, okay? And then if you wanna go inside and speak with Mrs. Mazzetta, I’m sure she’d appreciate it. After that, we’d appreciate it if you gave us a statement. Okay?”

A statement? Tim wasn’t thinking clearly. Joey was dead . . .

“Father?” Ortiz asked again. “You good with that?”

“Yes.” Tim stared back at him through a fog. “Yes. I’m good with that.”

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

The soft dinging of Evan’s cell phone woke her up.

She fumbled for it and tried not to wake Julia.

“Reed,” she said.

“Evan? It’s Tim.”

“Tim? What the hell?” She struggled to sit up. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know . . . maybe 6:30.”

Evan blinked at the window blinds. Not a trace of light yet. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m . . . in your driveway. I didn’t want to bang on the door and wake everyone up.”

Julia stirred beside her. “What’s wrong?” she asked, sleepily.

“It’s Tim,” Evan whispered. “Give me two minutes to grab some clothes,” she said into the phone. “I’ll be right down.”

“Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

Evan tossed her phone back on the nightstand and turned to face Julia. “He’s out front, in the driveway.”

“The driveway? What time is it?”

Evan was already up and grabbing the clothes she’d worn last night off a chair. She glanced at the clock. “Nearly 6:30. Get dressed and come down when you’re ready.”

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t think so.” Evan struggled into her sweatshirt and headed for the door.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Julia said.

When Evan reached the front door, Tim was already standing there. Sunrise was still a ways off, and in the fading light cast by the setting moon, his pallor looked downright ghoulish.

Evan took him by the arm and hauled him inside.

“What the hell is wrong?” she asked.

“It’s Joey Mazzetta. He called me last night after I got home. He wanted to meet—to talk with me about . . . things. About Father Szymanski.”

Evan ushered him toward a chair so he could sit down. She perched on the arm of the sofa facing him.

“Joey from the photograph Joey?” she asked.

Tim nodded. “I went to see him that night after you showed me the picture.” He looked at her morosely. “I didn’t tell you that. I wanted to talk with him. To apologize.”

“Tim . . .”

“He threw me out. He told me I was no better than the rest of them.” Tim ran a shaky hand across his face. “He was right.”

“Hey. Hey, man.” Evan rested a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy.”

Julia came softly down the stairs and hesitated before approaching them where they sat.

“Julia is here,” Evan said. “Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah.” Tim raised his head and looked toward the doorway where Julia stood. “We’re family.”

Evan squeezed his shoulder.

“Honey?” she addressed Julia. “Would you please get Tim a glass of bourbon? No rocks.”

“Of course.” Julia headed for the kitchen.

“Hold tight, Sunny. We’re right here with you,” Evan said.

Tim looked up at her. “I know you are.”

“Wanna take your coat off?”

Tim nodded and shrugged out of it.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“That’s a first.” She gave him a faint smile. He actually tried to smile back, but didn’t quite succeed.

Julia joined them with a big tumbler of bourbon. She sat down in the chair beside Tim and handed it to him.

“Drink this,” she said, gently.

He took the glass from her and took a swallow. “Joey called me at midnight last night, and said he was ready to talk—to be done with it all. We were going to meet at the Melrose Diner.”

“What happened?” Evan coaxed him to continue.

“I went there and waited. He never showed. I waited for him. Called his cell phone a few times. No answer. Finally, I drove over to their house on South Bouvier. And . . . ” He stopped.

“And . . . what?” Evan asked.

“There were police cars all over the place. A detective talked with me outside the house. Joey had been killed. Shot in some alley off 15th Street.”

“What?” Evan was stunned.

“Yeah. It was horrible. Surreal.” Tim met Evan’s eyes. “They took me inside to see his mother. She was . . .” He couldn’t continue. Julia reached over and rested her hand on his arm. “I don’t know what’ll happen to her. Joey was out of work. They have no money.”

“Did this detective say what they think happened to him?”

“Robbery, maybe? Detective Ortiz said Joey’s wallet was found on the ground beside his body. His body . . .”

“Drink your bourbon, Sunny.” Evan smoothed her hand over Tim’s unruly red hair. “Was that J.C. Ortiz?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. Once you’re finished with that, we’re gonna go into the kitchen and make some breakfast.”

He lifted his head and looked at her. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

“Good.” Evan nodded at him. “Stevie will smell the bacon and be down here in two seconds. You wanna go splash some water on your face? Put your game face on for the kid?”

“Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” Tim drained his glass and got shakily to his feet. Julia stood up, too, and without asking, stepped in to wrap her arms around him. Tim hugged her back. “Don’t get carried away,” he said into her hair. “I might not let go.”

“You don’t have to,” she said.

Tim patted her back and released her. “I’ll be okay,” he said.

“I know you will,” Julia added, “because you have to be.”

Evan understood that Julia’s observation had a double meaning. When Tim kissed the top of her head, Evan saw that he knew it, too.

“I’ll be back in just a minute,” he said. He left them and headed for the downstairs bathroom.

Julia faced Evan. “This isn’t good.”

“No,” Evan agreed with her. “None of it is.”

“You think this was related to Cawley and those pictures, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She gave Julia a half smile. “Probably. You know me and coincidences.”

“Evan . . .” Julia didn’t finish her statement.

“Sweetie? There’s no reason to jump to any conclusions here. We just don’t know enough.”

“Yet?” Julia asked.

“Yet.”

Julia lifted her chin. “I’m going to ask you the same question I asked last night.”

“Will I tell you if I find out?”

Julia nodded.

“I don’t know. Ask me later today.”

“Why later today?”

“Because,” Evan stated, “after breakfast, I’m gonna go see my old pal, Detective Ortiz.”